I'd Know You Anywhere
by rebecca-in-blue
Summary: "Javert was disgusted by it, but he felt almost jealous of that little girl - jealous because she had Valjean all to herself." Dark, semi non-con Valvert, eventual M.
1. Chapter 1

As the summary says, this is graphic Valjean/Javert slash story involving semi-non-consensual sex. So yeah, this is quite a departure from my typical fluffly fare. I would really appreciate feedback, since this is so much out of my comfort zone. I don't usually write _any_ pairings, much less slash, much less _graphic_ slash. So I really have no idea where this story came from... but here it is, anyway. This first chapter is tame, but later ones will be M-rated.

This story is named after and partially inspired by the excellent novel _I'd Know You Anywhere_ , by Laura Lippman.

(For my own reference: 93rd fanfiction, 20th story for _Les Miserables_.)

* * *

Javert was very pleased with his new position in Paris. After all, who wouldn't be? Monsieur Chabouillet had transferred him to the city because he'd been so impressed with Javert's zeal and intelligence in recapturing Jean Valjean. He had already come so far since his early days as a lowly prison guard in Toulon, and in Paris, he now had even more opportunity to learn, grow, and become a better officer. He had no cause for complaint, and yet...

Javert had once never spoken aloud of his belief that Jean Valjean was still alive, somewhere. He knew that Monsieur Chabouillet believed him to be dead. _Everyone_ believed that man to be dead, except Javert. His body had never resurfaced after the fall from the Orion, and a small, official notice of his drowning was published in the newspaper. Javert had cut that notice out and kept it. He didn't quite understand why he did it, but he kept it and tucked it safely inside his Bible, between the chapter in Genesis about Jacob wrestling with the angel. Often at night, before he went to sleep, he would take out the notice of Valjean's death and read it, then read the Bible verses that he had underlined.

 _So Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him until daybreak. When the man saw that he could not overpower him, he touched the socket of Jacob's hip, so that his hip was wrenched as he wrestled with the man. Then the man said, "Let me go, for it is daybreak." But Jacob replied, "I will not let thee go, except that thou bless me."_

Jean Valjean was now dead and forgotten to Monsieur Chabouillet, to the prefecture, to everyone in the world, it seemed — except Javert. He never shared his belief that the man was still alive somewhere, hiding and living under a new alias, but he secretly held that hope inside him always.

And then came the miraculous day when his faith was rewarded, and he saw Valjean alive again, with his own two eyes.

He didn't see Valjean's face on that first day. He only glimpsed a portion of his back and shoulders, through a crowd, from a distance, one afternoon while he was walking his beat. But that was enough for Javert to recognize him. _I'd know you anywhere, Valjean,_ he thought to himself, watching those broad, familiar shoulders move through the crowd across the street from him. Valjean was too far away that day, and Javert lost sight of him before he could get any closer. But that didn't matter.

Javert didn't know how Valjean had survived falling from the Orion, nor how he had made his way to Paris from Toulon. But that didn't matter, either — none of it did. All that mattered was that he had seen Valjean again, alive and well, walking around right here in Paris.

Something in Javert's heart, something that had turned to ashes, was suddenly rekindled into a blazing fire.

After that, Javert began regularly frequenting the area of Paris where he had seen Valjean during his patrols. Of course, his inspector's uniform drew more attention, so to blend in better, he often walked the streets in civilian clothes as well, whenever he was off-duty. Valjean was likely keeping a low profile and rarely venturing out of whatever quarters he'd secured for himself, but Javert could be very patient when he wanted to be. Sure enough, after a few weeks, he saw Valjean again, walking the streets very late one night wearing beggar's clothes and a dark wig.

 _A wig!_ Javert had to duck quickly into the shadows of an alley for fear that he might actually laugh at the absurdity of it. Of course it made sense that Valjean would want to wear something to disguise his appearance, but did he honestly think that if he dressed differently and hid his white hair, then Javert wouldn't recognize him? _I'd know you anywhere,_ Javert thought, watching from the darkness as the brown-haired beggar walked past.

Not long after that, he saw Valjean once more. This time, he spotted him during the day — and this time, he wasn't alone. Javert was caught off-guard when he saw a little girl with him, and after a moment, he understood that she must be the whore's daughter. What was her name again? Cosette? He watched them from a safe distance, curious. The child was walking alongside Valjean, smiling, holding his hand in one hand and eating some sweet that he'd bought her in the other. An eclair, it looked like — rich food for a child. _Spoiled brat,_ Javert thought.

But then he quickened his pace, coming up a bit closer behind them, and from there, Javert could see how thin and waifish the girl was. Likely Valjean was buying her rich foods to try to put some weight on her. At the next street corner, they stopped, waiting for a carriage to pass before they crossed, and Valjean bent over the child and gently wiped some crumbs away from her mouth with his handkerchief.

Javert didn't cross the street after them. He sat down on a bench, thinking, and watched Valjean and the girl until they were out of sight, lost in the crowd. Javert shouldn't have found him again this quickly. Valjean was still keeping a low profile, as always, but he wasn't hiding as well as he once would have. The little girl had cast some sort of spell over him and made him sloppy. But perhaps he could make this work to his advantage...

Besides, it was not wholly the little girl's fault that he had found Valjean again. Javert _would_ have discovered him in time, no matter where Valjean hid or how careful he was. Even if he had to search to the ends of the earth, even if it took the rest of his life, Javert would _always_ find that man.

Javert stood up from the bench and began to walk down the street with a tiny spring in his step. He had made his decision. He decided that he wouldn't drag Valjean back to prison. He decided that he would instead do, at last, what he had wanted to do for so long.


	2. Chapter 2

Many thanks to those readers who've reviewed. This chapter is still comparatively tame.

* * *

A few nights later, under the cover of darkness, Javert walked very purposefully to the small boarding house where he had tracked Valjean. He picked the front door lock easily and mounted the stairs to the door at the top, but he didn't announce "Police!" or order "Open up!" He simply knocked, as if he were anyone calling.

It reminded him of the scene at Champmathieu's trial. When Valjean — Monsieur le Maire, as he'd been known then — had appeared in the courtroom and confessed his true identity, everyone there had been so stunned that rather than arresting him, they'd just let him leave. Indeed, someone had even opened the door for him. Now, when Valjean opened the door and saw Javert standing there, perfectly calm and patient in his civilian clothes, he was so surprised that he couldn't say a word, and there was no way for him to try to hide or run. Indeed, he actually opened the door wider to let Javert in. And after Javert stepped inside, he actually shut the door behind him.

They both stood perfectly still and silent for a moment, as if a spell had been cast, freezing them in place. Javert's eyes grew accustomed to the dim light and scanned the room. There was a small stove in the corner, a cupboard against the wall, and a table in the center of the room, where a single lantern sat, glowing faintly. The little girl was nowhere in sight, and Javert supposed that she was sleeping. There was a narrow little hallway off the kitchen that probably lead to her room. _Good_ , Javert thought. He didn't want anyone interrupting him and Valjean, especially not her.

The silence in the room was oppressive, _too_ quiet, and Javert looked at Valjean and realized that he was holding his breath.

"Take a breath, Valjean," he scoffed, and his words seemed to break the spell. "I haven't come here to take you back to prison."

Valjean's eyes narrowed, debating whether or not to believe this. It was telling that Javert come at such a late hour, wearing civilian clothes instead of his uniform, and he thought that he understood what it meant. He drew a deep breath and asked, "How did you find me?"

"You honestly thought that I wouldn't?"

Valjean was silent for a moment, then answered, "Jean Valjean is nothing now. He was declared dead."

Javert thought of the small obituary that he kept in his Bible and read almost every night. He had read it so often that he could've recited it from memory. But he'd never believed a single word of it.

"I always knew you were still alive. I could feel it. I felt in my marrow. But I never tried to convince anyone. They would think me mad. Jean Valjean is forgotten by everyone in the world, except me. The prefecture doesn't even have a file on him anymore."

"If you're not here to take me back to prison," Valjean asked, growing impatient, "then what do you want?"

But Javert didn't want to give voice to such base instincts. He forced his voice to be smooth and even, to betray nothing of the intense urges that were rising in him now, as he answered, "I think you know what I want."

Valjean looked away quickly and didn't answer. _He knows,_ Javert thought. When Valjean stayed silent, he continued.

"Did you really think that I wouldn't find you? Did you really think that if you dressed like a beggar, I wouldn't recognize you?" Javert smiled and snorted as he said this, which was startling to Valjean, for it was the closest that he had ever seen Javert come to laughing. He wondered vaguely if perhaps this was all a dream. "I could never fail to recognize you. It wouldn't matter what you did to your appearance, or how many years had passed. I'd know you _anywhere_."

Valjean still said nothing, but he crossed the kitchen to the tiny window — it overlooked the alleyway behind his hovel of a boarding house — and drew the curtains. The room grew darker, and Valjean slowly walked back, until he was standing on the other side of the table from Javert, his arms crossed, waiting.

"I haven't told the prefecture that you're living here in Paris now," Javert went on, his voice lower. "I haven't told anyone that you're still alive, even. I don't have to, Valjean." He paused to let this sink in. His blood was racing now, and he felt certain that this was the same wild, heady thrill that Jacob had felt when he was wrestling with the angel. "I could let everyone go on believing that you're dead, and you have my word that I will, if you give me what I want tonight."

Valjean went very still. Javert watched his face closely and saw the muscles tense in his jaw. He still didn't specify what he wanted from him, and Valjean didn't ask. They didn't have to. They never had to.

 _I will not let thee go, except that thou bless me._

"I've waited a long time," Javert went on. He licked his lips. "I've wanted it since Toulon."

Valjean answered him then. "You could've had your way with me there," he pointed out. "If you wanted to, then why didn't you?"

It was true that he could've had Valjean in Toulon. Valjean was stronger, but he was only a prisoner in chains, and Javert was a guard with a weapon. Many nights he had fantasized about entering Valjean's cell with his pistol drawn and forcing himself upon the man. He could've done it easily enough... but he never could've done it _discreetly_. The darkness of night wouldn't have muffled the noises of them together, and of course prison quarters were cramped and provided no privacy. All the other guards and convicts would've known. At best, there would've been gossip and whispers about it, and there were already too many rumors about Javert, because of the color of his skin. At worst, he could've been fired from his job as a guard.

So Javert had never acted on his impulses in Toulon. He'd restrained those instincts and forced himself to stare from a distance at Valjean's broad shoulders, his strong, sinewy arms. As much as he'd wanted the man, keeping a reign on his desires was second nature to him. Self-control had always been one of his best virtues.

Now Javert answered, scoffing a bit, "It was a _prison_." That was all that he said, but Valjean seemed to understand what he meant. Of course he did. The two of them had always understood each other so perfectly. This night between them would be perfect.

He lowered his eyes, unable to look at Valjean for a moment, and said softly, as if he were confessing something, "You know me, Jean. I daresay... you know me better than anyone."

Valjean's eyes widened. Surely he was dreaming. Or could he be hearing things? Javert had rarely ever addressed him as anything besides 24601, and he had _never_ called him by his first name before. His name sounded so strange — so familiar, yet exotic — coming from Javert's lips that Valjean's mouth went dry, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe.

Javert took a deep breath and raised his head to look Valjean full in the face again. "You know me," he said again. "Have you ever known me not to be a man of my word? Give me what I want, and you have my word that I'll let you be. No other officer of the law would ever remember you and go on searching for you as I have. You would be a free man."

But Javert could tell that Valjean was still debating his offer, and so he decided to play his final card. He decided to mention the little girl. "Give me what I want," he said again, "and you won't have to live in fear any longer. You can spend the rest of your days raising that little girl without having to always look over your shoulder. You have my word."

Valjean looked at him sharply at the mention of the child, and Javert knew then that he had won. He had seen Valjean with the girl only once, but it was obvious from the way that he tended to her that he would do anything for her. He would do anything to keep her safe — _anything_ , even what Javert was asking of him now.

 _So Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him until daybreak._

Valjean said nothing, but he pushed himself back from the table, turned, and crept quietly down the hall. Cosette's bedroom door was still open a crack, and he shut it tight, praying that she wouldn't overhear any of the noises that they were about to make. He shut the door to his own bedroom as well. He knew that Javert wanted them to do the deed in his bed, but he would never agree to that. He wasn't going to allow Javert to even set foot in his room. Often Cosette slept in his bed with him after she'd had a nightmare. It was a space that he had to keep pure for her.

 _You can do this_ , Valjean thought, as he slowly walked back to the kitchen. He remembered Cosette's mother, who'd entrusted her to his care as she lay dying. Fantine had sold her own body to provide for her daughter. She'd had no other choice, and in a way, he didn't, either. It was ironic — who would have thought that a _man_ would ever have to sell his body?

 _You can do this. It's only this one night._ Cosette was fast asleep, and by the time she woke up in the morning, Javert would be gone. She would never know — just as she would never know a number of things about him — and Valjean would never tell her. He would never speak of it to anyone.

 _You can do this. You can do it for Cosette and for yourself, too._ And he could.


	3. Chapter 3

And... we're now M-rated. I know that some readers aren't into slash, and usually I'm not either, so in this chapter, I limited the slashy stuff to the first and last paragraphs. There is a nice big middle chunk of slash-free, Javert-centric musings, so I hope that some of you who don't usually read slash will take a chance on this, anyway.

* * *

Valjean wouldn't let him into his bedroom, so they used the kitchen table instead. Its edge was rough and hard against Valjean's thighs when Javert turned him around and pushed him against it. Javert pushed his trousers down to his knees, then undid his own. He felt Javert's hard member rub against the back of his thigh, and then, suddenly, it was inside him, and Valjean had to bite his lip to keep a moan from spilling out. Javert was large, but his speed was worse than his size; Valjean's own body had no time to adjust to the intrusion.

He soon had him bent completely over the table, the flat wooden surface rubbing hard against one side of Valjean's face as Javert worked him in a rough, precise way that made his skin crawl. He could tell that he would have bruises from this tomorrow morning. He could tell that Javert wasn't lying when he said that he'd wanted this for years. Valjean could feel years of pent-up longing and frustration in the depth and force of Javert's thrusts. He could hear it in the loud, animal grunts that accompanied each one.

And then, suddenly, Javert's noises were not the only sound in the room.

Javert heard the sound the first time, but he ignored it. He was in too much of a frenzy — short of breath, his heart pounding, and there was too much blood in his lower organs and not enough in his brain to really register the sound and what it meant. He heard it, and Valjean tensed and raised his head up from the table, but Javert didn't even break his rhythm.

But then the sound came again, just a few seconds later. It was louder this time — a child's voice, high and fearful, calling piteously, "Papa?"

The little girl was awake.

Valjean reached behind him then, seized Javert's wrist in one hand, and squeezed it so hard that Javert nearly cried out. But he didn't realize that Valjean actually expected him to stop until he muttered through his gritted teeth, "Stop... have to go check on her..."

 _Stop_? Had Valjean lost his mind? Javert couldn't stop now even if he wanted to, which he didn't. He pressed harder against Valjean and tried to angle deeper inside him. "Stop?" he repeated, panting breathlessly. "You don't really think..."

But it was too late. Valjean was already pushing him away, and there was the most unpleasant sound of bodily fluids squelching as he untangled his own body from Javert's. "I have to check on her," he said firmly, adjusting his clothes. "I'll be right back." And before Javert could object, he disappeared down the narrow hallway.

Javert had no choice, so he waited and tried to catch his breath again. His lower organs were throbbing, and so was his wrist, from where Valjean had gripped it to make him stop. Javert had almost forgotten how strong the man was; had he squeezed a bit tighter, he easily could've broken his wrist. Valjean wasn't the only one who was going to have bruises from this night.

Every second without Valjean seemed to drag by. Javert had hoped that he would be quick about checking on the girl — go to her room, tell her that there was nothing to afraid of, order her back to sleep, close her door, and return — but he supposed that had been naive of him. He had seen Valjean with the girl, and he was repulsively sweet to her. He could just hear them talking now, through the wall. Javert couldn't make out the words, but there was a tenderness to Valjean's voice that he had never heard before, and it nearly nauseated him.

What had become of 24601? What had become of the bitter convict who was so fierce and hateful that even the other prisoners were afraid of him, just as the other guards had been afraid of Javert? From the first day he'd arrived in Toulon as a young guard, Javert had felt such a kinship with that man because they shared the same ferocity, the same coldness in their eyes... but where was that man now? He was gone. The little girl had destroyed him. She had turned him into some weak-minded, soft-hearted old fool who doted on her as if she were heaven and earth. But then, Valjean had shown that whore in Montreuil-sur-Mer mercy that she hadn't deserved, so perhaps the change in him had happened earlier, before the child.

But either way, 24601 was gone now. Now Valjean's eyes were always shining with some sort of strange warmth, and the cold hatred that had once lived in them was gone. Right now, he was likely sitting on the girl's bed with her, wasting their precious time together to reassure a child of... seven or eight, Javert guessed — certainly old enough that she should know how to self-soothe and fall asleep again without crying for her father. And Valjean wasn't even her real father, anyway.

Javert had been disgusted with Valjean's tenderness to the girl, but nothing disgusted him as much as the feeling that spread through him now — _jealousy_. He was actually _jealous_ of that little girl — jealous because _she_ had someone to comfort her when she woke up frightened in the middle of the night. Javert tried to never think back to his own childhood, but he did now. He had overheard and seen horrors many nights, things far worse than the noises that he had just been making with Valjean. But no one had ever comforted him. The guards of the prison where he'd spent his earliest years had been harsh and unkind, and his own mother hadn't been much better. Besides, she'd abandoned him to fend for himself soon enough. No one had ever comforted him.

He was jealous too because the girl had Valjean all to herself, and he was so wholly devoted to her that Javert couldn't even have this one night alone with him without that stupid brat interrupting it.

Javert was disgusted with himself for having these feelings — so disgusted that he considered turning around and walking out. He'd waited for years to be with Valjean like this, but perhaps it wasn't worth it if it reduced _him_ , an officer of the law, to actually feeling jealous of some pathetic, sniveling little girl. He could leave, right now, and Valjean would return to the kitchen and find it empty, and he would be relieved. He would feel glad to be rid of Javert. He wouldn't wonder why he had left so suddenly. He certainly wouldn't waste any time looking for him. Javert had spent _years_ searching for Valjean, but if he were to walk out of Valjean's life right now, Valjean would be grateful for it. The harsh certainty of that pricked like a needle at Javert's lonely old heart.

He very nearly did turn around and leave, but just then, he heard the girl's door thump closed, and suddenly Valjean was there in front of him again.

"I got her to go back to sleep," he whispered, rubbing one hand across his mouth uncomfortably. "But she said she heard a scary noise. You'll have to be quiet."

Javert scowled at this. "You're spoiling her," he spat out accusingly.

The change in Valjean was subtle, but even in the dim light, Javert still noticed it. Valjean's eyes narrowed and darkened over with an old, familiar coldness. His face and voice were hard when he said slowly, in a tone that left no room for doubt, "If you wake her up again, I will kill you myself."

 _There you are_. Javert very nearly said the words aloud. For in Valjean's anger at him, he recognized the fierce, bitter convict that he had known in the Toulon prison. He recognized, for the first time in a long time, 24601. And it was the most arousing thing that he'd ever seen. In no time at all, his member was stiff and swollen again, and Valjean was bent over the table again. Javert kicked his legs apart, and even though Valjean gave him no resistance at all, he kept one hand pressed hard on his shoulder the entire time, to make sure that he didn't try to stand or shift away.

They couldn't help panting, but that was the only noise they made. Even when Javert slammed him against the edge of the table and came inside him for the first time, Valjean pressed his lips together and didn't moan or cry out. Javert wouldn't have known that he was in any pain at all, if not for the way that Valjean shuddered and trembled beneath him, so violently that Javert pressed both palms against his back as if he might break apart, as if Javert was the only thing in the world that could hold him together. And in that moment, with the rapturous pleasure searing through his veins, Javert believed that he was.


	4. Chapter 4

His own stamina surprised him — after all, he'd never been with a man before — and he took Valjean three times before the night was over. He came once when the two of them were bent over the table, then once while they were up against the wall, and then once more, finally, while they were lying on the bare floor. It was a long night, exhausting for both of them, and painful for Valjean, but if Javert could only have one night with this man, then he intended to make it last as long as possible. If he had to be gone before dawn rose over Paris, then he intended to leave with no regrets.

It was while they were bent over the table, with Valjean writhing beneath him, that Javert thought that he saw a snake in one corner of the room. It startled him for a moment; how could a snake have gotten in here when Valjean lived on the top floor, and in the middle of the city? It made him think of the serpent in the Garden of Eden who had led man to original sin, and despite being in the long-awaited throes of passion with Valjean, he nearly left him for a moment to go over and kill that snake.

What a monumental fool he felt when he looked again and saw that it wasn't a snake at all. It was a piece of rope, coiled up and tucked in a corner. It had wooden handles at either end — a skipping rope. It must belong to the little girl. What a fool he felt, and angry with himself, he leaned closer over Valjean, thrusted deep inside him, gripped a handful of his hair, and yanked sharply. Valjean jerked, startled, as if he were trying to buck Javert off him, but still, he didn't make a sound.

Seeing Valjean hold his silence aroused Javert even more. 24601 was older now, and the little girl had softened his hard edges, but at least he still possessed that same stoicism, that same threshold for pain that Javert had always admired in prison. Really, how could he ever have resisted this man? How could he ever have stopped searching for him?

It was while they were up against the wall, with Javert panting into the back of Valjean's neck, that he let himself go pleasantly limp. His thighs trembled, and then he leaned his entire body against Valjean. Most men would've staggered or fallen under his weight, but Valjean just stood straight and tall, his perfect, gorgeous strength supporting them both easily. Javert leaned his forehead against Valjean's shoulder and smiled. Yes, the little girl might've softened his heart, but his body was still as strong as ever.

It was while they were on the floor that Javert decided to slow his pace, to make this position last. He was tortuously slow as he slid inside Valjean, and he rode him gently, with long, smooth glides. After he trembled and shuddered and came inside for the last time, he laid down on the floor beside Valjean, the length of their bodies pressed together, panting in time and sweating each other's sweat.

Just before he finally finished with him, Javert leaned against Valjean and trailed his tongue up along his chest, savoring the salty, sweaty taste of his skin. When he reached his shoulder, he opened his mouth wider and bit him, hard — hard enough and long enough that his teeth drew blood, and Valjean seethed softly from the pain.

Valjean glared at him, angry and a bit hurt, when he finally released him and pulled away. "That wasn't necessary," he muttered, pressing one hand over the wound.

Javert smiled a bloody smile. Of course it wasn't necessary. Valjean had withstood the pain perfectly and never resisted him once all night. He'd behaved so splendidly. Javert was glad that he'd never forced himself on him in Toulon, for he wouldn't have enjoyed it nearly so much if Valjean had resisted and put up a fight. He wanted this submission from him. He wanted him to act like he wanted this. It was so worth the long wait.

"I wanted you to have a scar from tonight," he answered softly, still smiling. "I wanted you to have something to remember me by."

Valjean hesitated and looked away for a moment, then looked back at him, right into Javert's eyes. As well as he knew this man, Javert could not quite read his expression when he replied, "I could never forget you, Javert."

Javert's heart seized up with a strange, sad yearning. Could Valjean not hear it beating? His words replayed inside his mind. _I could never forget you, Javert._ He sounded almost as if...

But no, it couldn't be. He reminded himself that Valjean's whole world revolved around the little girl now. There was no room in his life for Javert or anyone else but her. That girl was the only reason that Valjean had consented to be with him tonight at all. He'd never really wanted this, not like Javert had. He had only done it to keep the girl safe. They could never have another night together like this. Javert would have to take what he could get and make the best of it.

After all, wasn't that what he'd been doing all his life?

It was a late hour when he finally left the Gorbeau House and returned to his own simple flat in a different part of the city. He wasn't able to get much sleep before he had to wake up again and report to the police prefecture for the morning shift, and yet, he woke up feeling more rested and refreshed than he ever had before.

There was a tiny spring in his step as he walked to work, imagining Valjean in that kitchen where they had twined their bodies into one all night. Likely he was fixing breakfast for himself and the child right now. But whatever he was doing, he _had_ to be limping, Javert was certain of that. As strong and stoic as Valjean was, even he couldn't completely hide the pain of what Javert had just put his body through. He smiled to picture Valjean limping as he moved about the kitchen. Perhaps he was sitting down very slowly and gingerly in his chair at the table, and perhaps the little girl noticed it and asked him, "What's wrong, Papa?"

And whatever answer he gave her, it _had_ to be a lie. He would certainly never tell that girl the truth about what he'd done with Javert last night. No, he would never tell her a great many things about him. Javert felt reassured — triumphant, even — to know that nobody else in Valjean's life, not even the little girl that he was raising as his own beloved daughter, would ever know him as intimately as Javert did. Nobody else in the world would ever know him anywhere.

 **FIN**


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